The Emerald Isle (22 page)

Maddie, I decided, had definitely read too many romance novels. She fancied herself a character in some Meghann McGreedy novel and was trying to shape Taylor into the typical romantic hero. She wanted him to fight for her and stick to her side like a cocklebur, but Taylor was a mature man living in the real world. If I were a man, she wouldn’t care that Taylor and I were close. But I was his friend and a woman. No amount of wishing or wanting would change either of those facts, so she’d have to learn to deal with me as part of Taylor’s life.

Teetering on the edge of an unstable rock, I turned to regain my balance and caught a glimpse of the stately farmhouse. The shadows of evening had begun to stretch across the ground, and a light gleamed from the front window. I knew I ought to turn back, but I wanted to give Taylor and Maddie time to sort out whatever needed to be sorted out. Besides, the quiet darkness seemed innocent and pleasant. The hills around me stretched and sighed with the moaning wind, rustling the ivy at my feet and lifting my hair in a cold rush.

Overcome by the magic of the moment, I slowly lifted my hands to the darkening sky, wondering if Cahira had ever stood outside on a night like this one, driven out of her home by the tensions inherent in being a king’s daughter. I closed my eyes, straining to hear the sounds of ancient music on the wind, and something within me shriveled when I heard the clattering growl of a diesel engine instead. The vehicle, coming up unexpectedly from behind, startled me so that I dropped my arms and lost my balance on the unsteady wall. I may have even shrieked. All I can remember is hanging by my toes on
the edge of a rock, my arms pinwheeling as I realized my position was violating every known law of gravity. This thought had no sooner crossed my mind than I fell into the path of the approaching car.

For an instant the fabric of time ripped, and my ears filled with the spine-chilling screech my parents must have heard when the car in front of them swerved and left them to confront Virgil Winters, fifty-one, recently divorced and fresh from a night of drowning his troubles at the Good Times Bar in Schenectady. My adrenal glands dumped such a dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream that my heart contracted like a squeezed fist. The squeal of brakes competed with my own frantic scream, and the car stopped six inches from my head.

Fear and anger knotted inside me as the driver’s door flew open. I took a deep breath, realized I was alive and intact, then saw that a dark masculine form had appeared in the road. A deep voice roared in the silent night, filling my buzzing ears with words I had never heard or read in any book.

“’Tis raining bloomin’ eejits!” The man, still bellowing, advanced toward me, and my cluttered brain began to make sense of his language. “Are you escaped from the loony bin or just takin’ a stroll in the dark of night?”

“It’s not dark yet,” I snapped, lifting my head. Pain shot from my ankle all the way up to my knee, and I couldn’t have cared less about this fellow’s inconvenience.

The man slapped his forehead. “Ah, sure, and it’s a Yankee tourist.” He stepped back, as if the aforementioned class of persons carried a dire communicable disease. “Are you hurt then? Stand up, and let’s have a look at you.”

I straightened myself with dignity, brushed the dirt off my jeans, and tried to summon the energy for a confident, regal glare. But when I eased my weight onto my throbbing ankle, I couldn’t help but wince.

“Ah, so you are a little the worse for wear. Is it the foot?” He stepped forward into the twin beams of his car, and I caught a glimpse of a trim waist, khaki trousers, and expensive leather loafers. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can.” I lifted my injured leg and hopped toward the stone fence, leaning on it with an air of independence. “I’m fine. Drive on, go ahead. I wouldn’t want an American tourist to slow you down.”

He stepped closer, and I could see his hands on his hips and the gleam of a smile through the darkness. “Look, I’m sorry you got a fright. Tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll drop you there.”

I thought about refusing the offer, but my ankle had begun to throb. And the darkness had settled and thickened around me, so I’d be hobbling home in the dark. Streetlights weren’t exactly commonplace in rural Ireland.

“All right.” I spoke in a clipped voice, determined to show him that
this
American tourist was no weakling. If he had murder or mayhem on his mind, he’d find me an unwilling victim, injured ankle or not. “I’m staying at the O’Neil farm. It’s the B&B just ahead.”

“I know the place.” He rubbed a hand across his face, and I could hear the faint rasp of an evening stubble. “I spoke with Maddie earlier today, and she said they didn’t have any guests.”

Good grief, these rural folk had a gabby grapevine! “I’m not a guest,” I answered, a little miffed at the intrusion into my privacy. “I’m, uh, a friend. Visiting for a while.”

“Right so.” He tipped his head back as understanding dawned, and I glimpsed a generous mouth, a straight nose, and a handsome profile dark against the rising moonlight. He slipped between me and the passenger side of the car, then opened the door. “Will you be able to make it this far?”

“Of course.” I gritted my teeth and hobbled over, wincing as I placed my weight on my heel.

I thought I heard him laugh softly as he closed my door, but then he came around to the driver’s side, slid into his seat, and put the car into gear. He drove slowly, watching for the drive and the break in the fence, then turned into the driveway with a confidence I envied. Taylor and I had driven past the overgrown entrance twice on our way back from Terryglass.

As the car moved slowly down the drive, I glanced around the
car. A leather briefcase lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat, and in the glow of the dashboard lights I could see the dim outline of a suitcase on the backseat.

I looked up at my rescuer. “Traveling yourself, are you?”

“A bit,” he answered, swinging the car into the parking lot. He killed the engine and stepped out, and as he came around to open my door, yellow rectangles of light from the front windows illuminated my reluctant hero. I bit my thumbnail as I studied him. He was attractive in a just-rolled-out-of-bed sort of way, with a wealth of dark curly hair crowning his head and his tall, wide-shouldered frame. I lowered my thumb as he swung my door open, irritated by his dramatic display of graciousness and my own helplessness.

“Thanks,” I muttered. I tried to rock myself out of the seat, but the car crouched close to the ground, and I didn’t have enough leverage. Before I could pull myself up or even ask for help, his wide hands gripped my elbows and lifted me upward. In less time than it took to catch my breath I found myself practically in his arms. I stood there, breathless and stunned by his closeness, then automatically spat out the words I’d rehearsed a thousand times in case of a mugger’s attack: “I know how to defend myself, so release me this instant, you creep.”

His hands opened and he stepped back, his hands lifting in a “don’t shoot” pose. His mask of concern shattered in humorous surprise. “You’re all right then? You don’t need help?”

I struggled to catch my breath. “I’m fine. Thanks very much, but I don’t need anything else. You can just get back in your car and be about your business—”

He wasn’t listening. As I continued telling him what he could do, he turned and walked toward the front door, then twisted the knob and disappeared into the house.

I took a quick, sharp breath, then hopped after him on my good leg. “Shouldn’t you knock?” I wasn’t quite certain what sort of etiquette would apply in this case, but it seemed only polite to knock first, then enter, even if the house was a B’B. What nerve this man
had! Either the farmers in this area were a lot friendlier with each other than I imagined, or this guy had used me as a way to get inside the house so he could rob the O’Neils and Taylor, too. Stranger things had happened—in New York, at least.

“Hey, you!” I bounced into the foyer, then hobbled through the hall, too far behind the fellow to stop him from moving through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. The guy had headed straight for the sounds of activity, and by the time I reached the kitchen he would either have the O’Neils lined up against the wall or be entertaining them with a story about a stupid Yank who nearly got herself run over.

Dreading either scenario, I pushed the swinging door open. Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil and Taylor were sitting at the table, as calm and contented as fat cats, while Maddie had her arms wrapped around the big lug, squeezing him so tightly that he was bound to pass out at any moment.

Taylor grinned up at me. “I hear you’ve met Patrick.”

I pushed my hair off my damp forehead and stared at Taylor in dazed exasperation. “Who?”

Taylor shaded his mouth with his hand, then mouthed a message to me: “Maddie’s brother.”

“Oh.” Feeling relieved and foolish, I slid onto the bench at the kitchen table, then propped my swollen foot on the radiator against the wall. No one even noticed my discomfort. Every eye was fixed upon the tall man hugging Maddie in the center of the kitchen.

I heard Mr. O’Neil take a deep and insulted breath. “I thought you couldn’t tear yourself away from your work,” he said, sudden anger lighting his eyes.

Turning to face his father, Patrick lifted his clinging sister from the floor, then gently lowered her back to the ground. The play of body language looked almost as if he were using Maddie as a shield against his father’s verbal darts.

The wariness in Patrick’s eyes froze into a blue as cold as a glacier,
though his mouth remained curved in a polite smile. “Maddie rang me up and convinced me to come.”

I parked my chin in my hand and narrowed my eyes. So this was the O’Neil brother, the infamous black sheep of the family. I stared wordlessly as Maddie stepped out of his embrace and surrendered her place to Mrs. O’Neil, who clucked and daintily patted Patrick’s shoulder while dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Black sheep indeed. The title fit, for out on the road he’d certainly impressed me as someone dark and dangerous. But here in the kitchen, where I could see him plainly, I couldn’t think of a single reason why a family wouldn’t be proud to claim such a son.

An hour later we were still sitting in the kitchen, but a sense of order had been restored. Taylor had been thoughtful enough to find a bag of ice for my swollen ankle, and Mrs. O’Neil fluttered from Taylor to me to Patrick, refilling our dinner plates the moment a bit of china appeared beneath the delicious Irish stew. Maddie spent most of her time beaming at her brother, but her smile faded every time her eyes shifted in my direction. Our most recent conversation must have been weighing on her thoughts—perhaps she’d changed her mind and wanted me to leave.

But as I accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. O’Neil, I noticed that the elder woman’s attitude toward me had definitely improved. Either Maddie had told her about our clear-the-air talk, or Patrick’s arrival had lifted her spirits to the point where she could overlook even an American in her kitchen.

Mr. O’Neil, however, seemed strangely quiet—but maybe he was feeling a little sick. He didn’t respond to Patrick’s comments or clever jokes, but merely sat at the end of the table, his pipe jutting out one side of his mouth, the smoke streaming across his face.

And as for Patrick—well, it was easy to see why the women were thrilled to have him home. Not only was he a downright pleasure to
look at, but a few moments into the conversation I realized that wit, intelligence, and an encyclopedic mind lurked beneath that handsome facade. When Maddie asked about his latest project for Intel, he described it with an offhanded fluidity that made the work seem simple, but I couldn’t follow a word of it. When Mrs. O’Neil asked about some man down at Dugan’s Pub, he smiled and told her that yes, he had stopped in before coming home, and everyone there had asked about her health.

As I listened, I grew conscious of a small stirring of jealousy in my breast. Why couldn’t I have had a big brother? Maddie O’Neil was the luckiest girl I knew. Patrick held himself with the graceful air of an individual who is at home in many worlds, yet he was humble enough to listen attentively to every word that proceeded from Maddie’s and his mother’s lips.

Why was he wasting his time in computers? The guy should have been running the country.

“So, Maddie, tell me what you’re thinking of doing with yourself after you marry this man.” Patrick crossed his arms on the table and nodded in Taylor’s direction. “You’ve got a degree now—so what will you do with it?”

The tip of Maddie’s nose went pink, and she looked somewhat abashed. “I don’t rightly know yet, Paddy. Taylor wants to earn his doctorate, so I’ll probably take some kind of job to help make ends meet while he’s teaching half-days and going to school.”

Patrick cast Taylor a glance of well-mannered disapproval, then turned again to his sister. “Listen, love, you don’t want to be wasting your education. I’m sure this Yank is a lovely fella, but you’re more than a sidekick, haven’t I said so? You ought to be making plans of your own and thinking further ahead than next year.”